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You’ve seen him in every horror movie since 1984: the black guy who hangs out with a group of white people he has nothing in common with, whose only purpose, it seems, is to die first. He’s been sliced into pieces in Resident Evil, de-armed in Predator, and he had his head punched off in Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan. Now, for the first time, he speaks candidly. As he walks up to greet me, clad in a retro letterman jacket and Chuck Taylors, he seems cautious, constantly looking over his shoulder with the bug-eyed nervousness of an inmate guarding his food. When I extend my hand to shake, he leaps backwards and shouts, “Oh lawdy!” with his arms arched over his strangely outdated Jheri curl.

You’ve appeared in 684 horror movies in the past 25 years, and every time, you die. What keeps you going?

Well, Mark, I gotta say it’s my love for the genre. And crack. Mostly the crack.

Off all your deaths, which was your favorite way to die?

Being fellated to death! (Laughs.) No, really, I never get to have sex. (Sighs. Rubs himself for several seconds with a faraway look in his eyes, then snaps out of it.) Oh, my favorite death? Probably in Satanic Skank Spank when I had my arms chopped off, then I was dumped in a vat of plaster of Paris, and my body was posed to look like the Venus de Milo. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but I appreciated the artistry.

Do you have any favorite last words you’ve uttered?

Usually, it’s something generic, like “Save yourself!” or “Get outta here!” but this one time, I ad-libbed, “The black man is God!” That was during my Muslim phase.

You’ve been playing a high school jock for three decades now. Do you worry about your believability now that you’re, what, 46?

Forty-nine, actually, but I can play 35. I usually pretend to be latently retarded in my movies so people will assume I’ve been left back a few times. But yeah, I think there could be some credibility issues. That’s why I’ve been trying to move behind the camera to direct. I’ve been meeting with a producer to get this project off the ground that I wrote called Dead Crackers — although there ain’t no Saltines in it, if y’know what I’m sayin’? (Gives me dap.)

Do you have any aspirations of actually living until the end of a film?

Sure, and I’d also like to shit rainbow sherbet! Look, it’s not like I wanna die; I don’t wanna follow these stupid white kids when they say, “Let’s go party in the old abandoned prison!” But I always end up shouting, “Outta sight!” Outta sight? Who even says that anymore?!? It’s a compulsion. I got problems, man. But no more. I’m seeing a psychiatrist, and once I get funding for my movie, I’ll write myself a small part just to show people that I can be in a horror movie and not end up dead!

At this point, a scaffolding falls on B.G.’s head, killing him instantly. He doesn’t plan on letting his death prevent him from signing copies of Librarian Bloodbath Massacre III at the Barnes & Noble downtown next Tuesday.

Have you ever met someone that you instantly hated? I mean, with a passion; not a mild distrust or a ‘don’t-drop-the-soap’ hesitation, but a deep-seated gut instinct that this person should be pushed down a flight of stairs in order to save humanity.

For a while before that, it had been Kazaam, and briefly, during a rough stretch in my adolescence, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. But no film has retained my enduring ire like The Green Mile.

And yet, it remains one of the most beloved pictures of the past 25 years. A quick perusal of the IMDb reveals a user rating of 8.5 out of 10, and Rotten Tomatoes has it as “Certified Fresh” with a robust 80% Tomatometer Rating, meaning that critics and unwashed masses alike love this fucking movie. Clearly, there’s a disconnect here between me and the rest of the world, so the question is obvious: what the hell is wrong with you people?

As much as it pained me to contribute to the film’s financial cume, though, I decided to rent it again to prove to myself that my detestation was warranted. And so it began…

00:45 — 45 seconds in, and I’m already feeling dread. Even the credits feel as if they were spawned from Satan’s left nut.

07:22 — Edgecomb, Tom Hanks’ character, is all mopey, reminiscing as a senior citizen about the bad old days. Is there anything sadder than seeing an old man cry? What’s up next, a kitten sprains an ankle?

16:48 — When Coffey opens his mouth, we realize that he’s a simpleton who can only spell his name and who’s deathly afraid of the dark. He is, however, obscenely polite, “Boss.” Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #2:Stepin Fetchit anyone?

20:42 — In a flashback, Coffey is found crying, holding two dead white girls in his arms. How did I get into Kobe Bryant’s nightmare? Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #3: Black man + white girls = trouble.

21:49 — The most polite lynch mob in the world catches Coffey red-handed and decides to turn him into the police, unharmed. Somewhere, Rodney King cries foul.

45:25 — Arlen (Graham Greene), the “Injun,” gets fried. Granted, the term “Injun” is never actually used; must’ve been a deleted scene. Also deleted: on his deathbed, Arlen curses Tonto, the Washington Redskins and Daniel Day-Lewis.

57:00 — Almost an hour into the film, we know little more about Coffey than we did at the beginning. Meanwhile, we have intimate knowledge of Edgecomb’s pee stream. Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #4: Shallow characterizations of black folk, while black issues are explored through white eyes.

1:04:27 — Coffey grabs Edgecomb’s crotch (Has he been in jail that long?) and heals the guard’s junk. Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #5: Now Coffey’s a mystical darkie. Three, three stereotypes in one!

1:07:39 — Having been imparted the power of the black penis, Edgecomb runs home and bonks his wife. Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #6: Black male virility. OK, so this one’s not so bad, sort of like all Asians knowing kung fu or all Italians being papal.

1:10:54 — Hammersmith (Gary Sinise) discusses Coffey’s origins: “Like he dropped out of the sky”. Coffey as a Christ figure? John Coffey. Jesus Christ. J.C. Chasez. I’m in 10th grade English class all over again.

1:26:05 — Percy (Doug Hutchison) wets his pants, making The Green Mile the most urine-centric film since Golden Showers 34 (Golden Showers 35 being all “artsy”).

1:32:35 — Coffey furthers the Christ comparisons by resurrecting a dead mouse. If he really were Jesus, he’d help me find the stupid remote.

2:10:07 — Edgecomb doesn’t ask Coffey if he wants to help the terminally ill Mrs. Moores (Patricia Clarkson) so much as he tells him to do so, taking him on a ride as you would a wounded dog. Did he not notice how drained Coffey was after saving a mouse? Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #7: Black man exists solely to help the white man.

2:23:20 — Coffey saves the white woman by mouth-kissing her (Apparently, he learned little from the whole white girl incident.). The guards are happy that Mrs. Moores is cured; don’t care much that Coffey now has her disease.

2:26:58 — Coffey transmits the sickness to Percy through hot mouth-on-mouth action (covert anti-AIDS homophobia?), then somehow makes him shoot Wild Bill. If Coffey can control others’ actions, how about getting them to, like, not kill you? That’s what Jesus would do.

2:31:12 — Coffey gives Edgecomb “a gift of what’s inside of me so you can see for yourself”; shows him a vision of what really happened to the girls. Surprisingly, O.J. is nowhere to be found.

2:37:10 — Now that he knows that Coffey is innocent, Edgecomb tells his wife, “This is the first time I’ve ever felt the real danger of Hell.” It’s all about you, isn’t it?

2:40:33 — Edgecomb is afraid of God’s wrath for killing “one of His true miracles.” So, if he were just a normal innocent black man (especially one who didn’t constantly call him “boss”), he wouldn’t care?

2:42:05 — Coffey explains to Edgecomb that he’s ready to die, sort of like Biggie. So let me get this straight: he’s afraid of the dark and full of wonder at even the smallest things the world has to offer, yet when it comes time for his execution, he’s suddenly not afraid of dying? Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #8: Assuaging liberal white guilt.

2:57:10 – Back in present times, old man Edgecomb reveals that because Coffey gave him a “gift,” he’s lived for 108 years and is still going strong. His old lady friend weeps. “You mustn’t blame John,” he says, as if living a full life for 64 years after Coffey dies is somehow a curse. Damn pervading deathlessness!

2:58:36 — Whiny ingrate Edgecomb explains that he’s actually not immortal and then follows it up by saying that he wishes for death. So step in front of a bus already! Alarming Racial Insensitivity Alarm #10: Black man gets the shaft, yet we’re supposed to sympathize with the white man.

3:00:47 — Through the ending credits, I wonder…If John Coffey truly were Jesus, wouldn’t he have risen from the grave like the greatest cinematic Christ figure, E.T.? He at least didn’t go out like a punk. The most miraculous part of The Green Mile that I see is how creamy and Botox-smooth Tom Hanks’ skin is. His face looks like a cross between a Cabbage Patch Kid and a Playmate’s ass. I wanted to bounce quarters off his rosy woman-cheeks.

So, if any white (or heaven forbid, black) person still doesn’t appreciate the level of discomfort that black people might feel watching The Green Mile, they should be strapped to a chair and forced to watch a double bill of Bamboozled and Rosewood, followed by front-row seats at a Paul Mooney standup act. If they can make it through that gauntlet without blood on the brain, that would be a miracle.

I have a secret passion; the less addicted of you might call it an addiction. I like to watch. I rent base, filthy movies and slip them into brown paper bags so no one can tell. I sit alone in seedy, near-empty theaters, pleasuring myself with this trash. I’m too embarrassed to tell anyone about my weakness, although my wife has caught me watching a time or two (“It’s a documentary!” is my standard excuse; she’s since cancelled the Discovery Channel.). But now I’m ready to step out of the shadows and proclaim loudly, I am a black man… and I love horror movies.

My guilt is overbearing, given the well-worn truism that “black person + horror movie = dead black person“. This is such an ingrained Hollywood reality that it’s even been parodied in films like Scary Movie and, um, Scary Movie 2 and 3.

Still, whenever I see that a black person is in a horror movie, I have to watch. While most viewers wonder if Neve Campbell will escape the clutches of the psycho killer, I stay tuned to see if she’ll run into Jamal hanging from a meat hook or if Black Thug #3 will find himself on the business end of a mutant shrew claw.

I’ve even begun to root for the worst.

I’m secretly disappointed when black actors don’t die in horror movies… especially that cocksure LL Cool J. (Rappers seem to have an irritating immunity — Ice Cube in Anaconda, Rah Digga in 13 Ghosts, Busta Rhymes in Halloween: Resurrection — probably due to their acute ability to “not go out like that.”) While everyone in the theater is yelling, “Don’t go in there, fool!”, I’m screaming, “Hey, Black Thug #3, I saw a St. Ides roll down that giant shrew hole!”

A while back, a black actor friend mentioned that he has a role in an upcoming slasher movie. “Do you die?” I blurted out, perhaps a bit too eager at the prospect.

He eyed me as if I were plotting his real-life death. “Um, no… I’m actually not in it for very long–“

“Not even off-screen? Like, from natural causes? Or a bear trap?”

“Don’t make me punch you in the head,” he said. Actors can be a touchy lot.

So why would I be so drawn to a genre known for killing off my own? Maybe it validates my suspicion that white people want us dead. Maybe it affirms a sort of racial indignation, like when that SOB Frank didn’t hold the elevator for you at work (“I knew he was a racist!”) More likely it’s the sheer camp factor; black horror genocide has reached such proportions that there’s a goofy appeal to it all. Or maybe I just like watching black people die.

It didn’t take long for me to learn how to uncover the most carnage with the least amount of effort. I quickly discerned that there are four main types of horror movies that feature black actors:

Blaxploitation has since given way to so-called “urban horror,” the prospect of which initially sent my bloodlust into overdrive. But I soon discovered that the effect is nullified if there are no white survivors as contrast. It ends up just feeling like black-on-black crime. Or course, it doesn’t help that urban horror is a lot like urban porn: cheap, ugly and probably mildly syphilitic.

I can only guess that the target audience is either black horror fans like myself or, having seen most of these films, people who cut themselves. The DVD cover art usually costs more than the entire movie, drawing suckers like me into its grasp with bright colors and shiny baubles. And the titles are oh, so hiply misspelled — Vampiyaz, Zombiez, Cryptz — I’m still waiting for The Loch Nezz Monzter or The Abominable Znowman (Illiteracy is so cool!). On some level, when I watch these movies, I feel like I’m supporting “the cause,” although the cause seems to be scamming viewers with crappy movies.

If you wanna see black people die, watching any horror movie made before 1968 is basically a waste of time. Aside from the anonymous “booga booga”-chanting native who gets trampled by King Kong, you’ll find mostly butlers, maids and assorted ethnic interior decoration (“Would you like to have a seat? Hey, Sofa, come here!”) who aren’t important enough to get a name, much less a death scene. Those who were big enough to get billing were typically the Mantan Moreland type of jumpy, “I ain’t a-goin’ in dere” spooks, who have since evolved into today’s streetwise “Fuck that, I ain’t going in there” spooks (See Mike Epps in Resident Evil: Apocalypse. Or don’t. Really, you don’t have to.).

In order to be a connoisseur of black death, you have to train yourself to recognize the death potential of a cast just by looking at the credits. If you see any of the following people listed, chances are you’ll find them at some point walking around in the dark, shouting, “Guys? Guys? Quit screwing around!” or at best, a heroic “Get out of here! Save yourself!” But more than anything, they scream “disposable”:

Charles S. Dutton

Joe Morton

Antonio “Huggy Bear” Fargas

Ernie Hudson

Giancarlo Esposito

Miguel “Juwanna Mann” Nunez, Jr.

CCH Pounder

Leon

Tom “Tiny” Lister, Jr.

Morris Chestnut

Omar Epps and/or Mekhi Phifer

Nipsey Russell

On the flip side, the most likely to live (and thus the most advisable to avoid) include:

Basically, if they’re big stars, they have a shot. But then again, if they’re big stars, chances are they aren’t in a horror movie.

Still, some of our greatest black actors have been “offed” in horror movies: James Earl Jones, Denzel Washington, Ossie Davis, Morgan Freeman, Doug E. Doug. But who speaks for these fallen heroes? I do. If not me, who? If not now, why? If not when, because. So far, I’ve tracked over 300 confirmed kills and 250 “Fuck that, I ain’t going in there”s. I’ve even registered a domain, www.blackhorrormovies.com, to share my findings and maybe post a pic or two.

Sure, there are readily accepted classics of the genre — from Frankenstein to The Exorcist to Scream — but take a moment and pay homage to the most thankless job in Hollywood: the black horror movie victim. Rent Dr. Giggles (Three kills!), I Still Know What You Did Last Summer (Four!), or Children of the Corn III: Urban Harvest (Five freshly husked corpses!). And every night, say a prayer to the patron saint of black death, Scatman Crothers, who took an axe for that crazy-ass white boy in The Shining so that others might follow in his footsteps.

Black women in cinematic history have long faced the double-barreled Hollywood stigma of race and gender “otherness,” their fleeting moment of glory coming in the ’90s when “You go, girl!” was introduced into the popular lexicon. On the more formal level of Oscar recognition, meanwhile, the black female images thus far celebrated by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences have been limited to “the three ‘M’s”: mammies (Hattie McDaniel), mystics (Whoopi Goldberg) and mammaries (Halle Berry).

With Goldberg’s career on permanent hiatus, the number of black actresses who now routinely headline mainstream theatrical films holds tenuously at one: Halle Berry (although any more like Catwomanmight change that real quick). Queen Latifah had a run for a while, but she, like so many black actresses, found safer avenues for acceptance in music, TV and being “straight.” The Taraji Hensons, Gabrielle Unions and Sanaa Lathans of the world get occasional leads in all-black fare, but mainstream top-billing is elusive.

However, a peculiar and unexpected refuge has emerged for other black women struggling to find steady gigs: horror movies.

Since the 1970s, horror films have provided something of a haven for black actresses, serving up roles they wouldn’t otherwise get in more mainstream Hollywood genres and freeing them from the obligation of doing it doggy-style with Billy Bob Thornton. Sure, “types” still exist in these roles (the voodoo sexpot, the mystical darkie), but in general they tend to be larger, more prolific parts — often leads — with less of the stereotypical finger-wagging characteristics detailed in the 2001 study The Black Image in the White Mind: Media and Race in America (e.g., 89% of black actresses were found using vulgar language on screen vs. 17% of white actresses. Holy shit!).

In the ’80s, as Reaganomics saw unemployment “trickle down” into all phases of African-American life, opportunities for black actresses dried up, but there were still notable exceptions like Breeders, Vamp, Angel Heart and one of the only all-black horror films of the decade, the uber-campy Black Devil Doll from Hell.

Whether it’s ingrained stereotyping of heroic empowerment, black horror heroines are typically hard-nosed and take-charge, unlike the often weepy, shrieking “final girls” of slasher fame. They tend to kick proverbial ass, even going so far as to drop some kung-fu action in flicks like Devon’s Ghost and Shadow: Dead Riot.

As such, they typically don’t survive the rigid moral structure of conventional slasher films (See Sleepaway Camp 2 and 3, Nightmare on Elm Street 4, Friday the 13th Part 3 and 5 though 7, Dr. Giggles, Halloween 2, Halloween: Resurrection, Scream 2, etc.), perhaps because they’re more prone to insult a maniacal killer’s sexual prowess — as Kelly Rowland does in Freddy vs. Jason — and then deal with the consequences. Nevertheless, the sistas have established quite an impressive history in the horror genre. Following are some select highlights. You go, girls! Or stay. Really, you should stay.

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